


The White Stones

by kathkin



Series: Summerpornathon 2014 [9]
Category: Ladyhawke (1985), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The sun was standing high in the sky, but soon it would be gone, for a little while. </i> Mithian is a hawk by day. Freya is a big cat by night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Stones

**Author's Note:**

> For Challenge 6 at [summerpornathon](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com): Cycles. _Ladyhawke_ fusion.

Night. Frost crunched under the cat’s paws as it paced towards home, beads of blood decorating its muzzle.

The cat didn’t know why it went home. Every night it roamed the woods, and every morning, in the hours before dawn, something – some scent – would guide it back to the same spot, the same green hollow in the ground, where it would curl and sleep as the first of the sunlight seeped across the ridge.

*

Freya woke up, filthy, with blood on her lips. She squinted, the greenish sunlight filtering through the trees hurting her eyes. She began to crawl across the forest floor, crawling to the hollow tree where she’d stowed an old sack. From the sack she drew a thong for her tangled hair, and a dress, and a handful of nuts that she ate propped against the tree.

As she ate her meagre breakfast, there was a beating of wings overhead. She looked up and saw the hawk settling upon a branch above her head; and she smiled. She shoved the last of her breakfast into her mouth and reached out a hand to the hawk, whispering softly to tempt it down.

The hawk came to her, settling on her arm. It looked at her, its eyes dim, and then it began to preen itself. Probably it didn’t know why it came to her, but it always did. Freya stroked its feathers lightly with a finger, making soothing noises, and said, “shh. It won’t be long now.”

*

It had been four years since the curse, and half a year since they’d taken to living in their hollow. It was safe there, hidden as it was, the scent of the cat keeping animals away; but that morning Freya left it, with her sack in one hand and her hawk flying overhead.

She left the hollow, left the woods, walked half a day to a place she used to come with her people, before the purge. Atop a steep hill there stood a ring of white stones. An empty ring. It should have been teaming with people, Freya knew, on a day so sacred, but there was only her, and her sack, and the hawk. She left the hawk flying about the stones and sat upon the ground, rooting through her sack for food and water.

The sun was standing high in the sky, but soon it would be gone, for a little while. Freya sat hunched against a white stone, and stared at the hawk flying overhead.

*

The hawk flew lower and lower as the light began to dim, at last settling on the stone at the centre of the ring, the altar-stone. There it cried out plaintively as the last of the sunlight died away.

Its cry fading to soft, gasping breaths as it transformed; and Freya’s eyes watered as she stared, drinking in the sight of the woman on the altar stone.

Mithian’s hair fell in clumps about her head, and she was staring at Freya, staring at her as if she was a ghost. Did she know what was happening? Freya didn’t know. She’d told Mithian about the eclipse, but the hawk didn’t understand.

“Freya,” said Mithian, “what –”

“Hush.” Freya crawled across the grass to the altar stone. “We don’t have long.” Her fingers touched the cold, white stone, and her lips touched Mithian’s hot mouth.

How long did they have? Minutes, perhaps. She shucked off her dress and kissed Mithian again, their bodies pressing together. There was a scar on Mithian’s cheek that hadn’t been there four years ago.

Mithian was talking, babbling about all sorts of things, about how she’d passed the years they’d been apart, and Freya wanted to listen, wanted to drink in every word – but she wanted to touch, wanted to put her hands and her lips on every part of Mithian’s body. She rubbed her cheek against the tense skin of Mithian’s belly.

“Here,” said Mithian, “here –” Her hands, her strong hands, were pulling Freya up, up.

She’d been afraid all day, afraid that it won’t work, afraid that if it did they wouldn’t know each other anymore – but they still knew each other. They fell into each other with in a messy rush, Freya straddling Mithian’s thigh, her fingers buried in the hot, wet place between Mithian’s legs, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding.

Freya was close, and the darkness about them was abating. “I won’t go back,” Mithian was panting, “I won’t, I won’t –” She cried out, and if it was pleasure or pain Freya didn’t know; she closed her eyes and gasped as she came, seeing bright lights inside her eyelids.

She caught one last glimpse of Mithian before the sun was shining down on them, and with a queer burst of light she was a hawk.


End file.
